


Pressure of Stars on Darkness

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [6]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-17
Updated: 2009-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:11:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean-Luc has a habit of musing, mulling and questioning, sometimes to his detriment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressure of Stars on Darkness

Wild shadows, acid verbs  
eyelids opening dans mon coeur  
tu me touche comme la pression  
des étoiles sur les ténèbres

_ (Wild shadows, acid verbs  
eyelids opening in my heart  
you touch me like the pressure  
of stars on darkness)_

In the elevator and the empty hall  
how'm I ever going to hear you when you call  
I'm always living and I always die  
on the event horizon of your eyes

I'm a loner  
with a loner's point of view  
I'm a loner  
and now I'm in love with you

~ Bruce Cockburn

~^~^~^~^~

Because she works a slightly different schedule, her day off doesn't coincide with mine. Today, we sit down to breakfast, and she looks at my robe and nods, smiling sadly. "I forgot about that. I should have asked Data to rearrange the schedule." Her smile dwindled. "Unless you would prefer that I not do that."

She startles me often with her refusal to make assumptions. I love that about her, but sometimes it stings. I realize that this is my first day off since we became lovers -- last week, on this day, we had been off the ship, on leave. "Why would you think I wouldn't? Don't be ridiculous. Who knows, I might even stop working on my days off, if you're around."

Her happy eyes make me smile. She puts down her cup, folds her hands as if we were in a counseling session, and tilts her head. "I'm ashamed of you. How many times have I told you -- "

"I do relax. Sometimes. It's just. . . well, frankly, I putter and visit the holodeck, and read, but my thoughts always go back to. . . . I have good intentions, does that count?"

She shakes her head and glances at the chron next to the bed. We usually sit at the small table in the bedroom to eat. "I have an appointment first thing -- no working, that's an order."

"From you, or the ship's counselor?"

"Both." She rises, and so do I. I intend a kiss on the cheek, but her presence intoxicates me. Her skin is soft, her eyes so easy to fall into, and putting my arms around her is a mistake. She returns the kiss briefly and moves out of my arms.

"Lunch?" I ask wistfully.

"Unless something comes up. Although, it looks like something already has." She giggles as she checks herself in the dressing table mirror. "Hold that thought. I'll be back at twelve hundred."

I think about all the things I can do on my day off and don't want to do them. I can only remember her, walking from the room, the counselor I know so well. I can only think about the contrast between the professional woman in the uniform and the wild-haired woman who laughed and rode a horse on the holodeck with me last night.

Though I have said I will make room, and have done so, she is slow to take advantage as if doing so will make me uneasy. I have never had a woman move in. My lovers have always been the transitory kind, who make no real imprint on my space -- who rarely see my quarters. I've seen other captains who felt comfortable with bringing liaisons aboard. I've never been one of them. Perhaps she's being perceptive as always and giving me ample opportunity to adjust.

I pick up the breakfast dishes and dispose of them, dress, and remember a time when I always wore a uniform. While closing a drawer I notice one of the others is slightly ajar, with something caught in it, and open it to tuck the stray item in. It's one of her drawers. A silk gown she favors, shimmering black, is on top -- a corner of it had caught. I tuck it in, then run a finger across the robe. Immediately the cool, smooth feel of the fabric reminds me of last night, after we came in from riding. We were sitting in the main room, on opposite ends of the couch, she with her various reports and things to read and me with mine. I had stretched out with crossed ankles, leaning back, trying to concentrate on reading. She sat cross-legged with a cup of something hot close at hand. She noticed me watching her out of the corner of my eye and smiled without looking at me. The smile did me in. I had to set aside my reading. The setting aside made her look -- she moved her drink, came to sit with me, leaning on my shoulder and curling her legs beneath her, and read her padd after giving mine back to me. Eventually she put hers with the empty cup on the coffee table and fell asleep with my arm around her and her hair tickling my chin. I didn't get much done, nor did I get to bed until much later, but I wouldn't complain.

I wish I knew what it is that makes me so easily distracted by her when off duty -- whether it is the newness of having someone there every night, or the way I feel about her. I'm not sure that it matters. She says the newness will wear off and we'll settle into something less distracting. In the meantime, I am willing to be with her every off-duty moment, but she knows my usual schedule too well and reminds me of things like ensemble practice and the date I set to give Ward a fencing lesson. She has her own agenda, visiting with Malia and late informal chats with patients to check on their progress since formal sessions were over. She schedules them when she knows I have other things to do. It feels like a subtle manipulation but I decide I feel that way only because I have no control over it -- she is being thoughtful. She doesn't want to interrupt my routine; she doesn't expect me to give up things I enjoy.

I put the robe away, ask the computer for some music, and go to the bookcase. I haven't read one of my actual books in a long time. The swan she replicated two weeks ago is sitting on one of the shelves. I pick it up, and I cannot breathe.

She was my counselor. She was the woman I heard others talk about. One reception in particular comes to mind, I can't even remember now which set of ambassadors or admirals we had aboard, it was years ago. It was to celebrate some holiday of our guests'. Ten Forward was decorated with strings of lights to resemble stars and darkened, and the dance floor lit with dim track lights low along the walls. I can still see her in shimmering black, most of her leg exposed, a tiny jeweled anklet glittering as she danced with him. Drelan was his name, unimportant as it is. I'm angered by it. I felt none of this ire at the time, why I should feel this way now dismays me, except that she looked at him then with frank admiration and a little heat, and left the party with him earlier than most. And I remember another man watching her leave with wistfulness on his face, some lieutenant I don't recall now. I remember how she could glow -- shining was something other women did. She has a soft, warm presence that lends itself well to her counseling duties, but at the same time it makes moths of men like Drelan.

In my inattention, my fingers slacken and the swan slips from my hand and shatters on the floor. Swearing at my clumsiness, I pick up the pieces and discard them. It was only a replicated copy. I consider making another one but decide against it.

Pacing the room, I wish I could stop feeling this restlessness. I think about leaving my quarters. What would I do? Any of a dozen things, I know, but the motivation isn't there. There is something to be worked through.

It never occurred to me that I would ever find anyone willing to stay with me. I told myself years ago that falling in love was the last thing I wanted, it would become an obstacle to my goals, and I left behind a number of wonderful women because of that resolution -- some of them in ways I regretted. Ill-mannered and callous, brash, and with the hindsight of many years in which to contemplate it, I realize I was terrified underneath it all. More recent liaisons have been with women who knew it wouldn't be permanent, with two exceptions, one of which was never a liaison at all and the other --

I have to quit thinking of Nella and what almost happened with her.

I pick up a padd Deanna left on the side of the bed and sit down in the tangled covers. Apparently, even when we do nothing but talk ourselves to sleep, we are restless sleepers. I was not so restless by myself. She was reading this last night, offered to read it out loud to me to put me to sleep, and laughed at the way I winced at some of the terminology. I still don't know what the article is about. It's a psychological publication. I realize as I look at the title that she must have made up last night's babble to tease me. The screen shows an article on the latest anti-depressants and their administration, and details of clinical studies. I know how to read the notations the results are displayed in but the figures mean nothing without knowledge of a meaningful baseline for comparison.

I know Deanna so well. I know her, and yet. . . . The party comes swimming back into my mind, visions of her laughing with Drelan and Riker -- she started a contest with Will, to see how many times in a row they could toss a nut in the air and catch it in their mouths. Childish. There are others, a few junior officers and one of the ambassador's aides, holding drinks and watching her, counting, six, seven, eight, nine. Ten. Eleven. Will beats a drum roll on the bar with his fingers. Twelve. The record so far. They laugh, applaud, and she palms another nut.

She misses her mouth. It changes everything. Suddenly, the men quiet, and watch her as she turns away and fishes for it. She straightens her dress and turns around again, smiling, and feeds the nut to Drelan. I remember my own reaction then, to turn away and get a drink from the bar, and find Beverly, who is dancing as always, but cool and composed and giving her partner a distancing polite smile. I then find someone to talk to about diplomacy, Federation policy, and leave behind all thoughts of nuts and smiling women and shapely ankles wearing glittering jewelry to catch a man's eye.

I set aside the padd and its psychobabble. Instead of thinking about the past any longer, I return to last week, and think of her as she was in the treehouse. There aren't many memories of us yet to keep me occupied. And suddenly, I'm overwhelmed with the disparity, the ratio of the time we've worked together to the time spent with the lovely woman who slides across the couch to be near me. Nothing's safe.

I spend an hour trying to find a way to keep myself from thinking about her. It's no use. The only way to do it is to occupy myself with the company of others, as in ensemble practice or playing poker or some work-related activity. Or to be on duty, when I can think of the counselor and not recall the off-duty smile she gives me in the confines of quarters or some simulation. How can I stop thinking about her?

Perhaps the question should be, why am I trying? I am supposed to relax. Imagination -- I can't visit the past, the present is bereft of her presence, but I can think of things I'd like to do with her. I fail -- all I can think of are the times I've seen her off duty, at poker games and crew socials, receptions and holiday celebrations, and I cannot see it. We have spent much of our time doing things we normally do, only together when possible, except for the trips to the holodeck and her curiosity about my interests and my past. She questions gently, gradually, making slow inroads into things I normally don't tell people. If she didn't do it so carefully I would feel more intrusion; I feel that way only now, thinking about it. When she is with me I give myself up and hope I don't disappoint -- she is not completely human, I keep realizing that anew each time she replicates something Betazoid or sings to herself in her language.

My thoughts wander back to Drelan. And others, whose names and faces, though vaguely remembered, nevertheless go through my mind. Moths. There were very few with any longevity -- only one or two I could consider real elephants. I realize that the last one was Worf. I don't remember seeing her with anyone after that, even a moth, unless Will. . . but there was nothing to make me believe their friendship became anything more, and Will did leave the ship.

But I remember, and curse my ability to recall. I cannot stop the thoughts until I escape to the familiar routine of reports.

When she returns, she finds me working. She scowls, marches over to my desk, and leans across to look me in the eye. "What are you doing?"

"Distracting myself. I couldn't stop thinking about you long enough to enjoy a book." I turn off the monitor and come around the desk. She backs away from me slowly. I touch her cheek, and it halts her backpedaling -- already I know how she loves to be touched. A caress could disarm her ire and bring her into my arms.

It hurts to think of how easy it is. How lonely she must have been, how starved for something as simple as a touch, that the light trace of a fingertip along her jaw could draw her to me as if she were falling into a black hole. I know she loves me; it steals my composure if I think about how she makes that so obvious. But I cannot reconcile this apparent hunger for touch and taste and the way she clings to me. I think of others, Drelan, Worf, the one with a back like a bulkhead whose name I can't remember, that other fellow who could charm anyone and everyone including Beverly, and the thin one with the casual sensuality he didn't bother to hide from anyone of any gender. I think of them and how different they all were from each other, and from me. I have nothing in common with any of them, I think, and if I do, I certainly don't want to know what it could be.

She is holding me and I cannot breathe. Having her in my arms wipes out the universe and everything in it, and makes me wish I could keep her there indefinitely. I live in the moment, her arms around me like cables, her hair in my face or brushing my neck or shoulder, her hands, fluttering at the back of my neck and caressing shoulder and arm, her lips soft as petals along my skin.

It hurts, because there are some things so incredible, so wonderful, that the pleasure turns to pain.

"What do we want for lunch?" she asks, kissing my face, pretending to be oblivious to me. But she knows. Her eyes give that away. She knows how I have been feeling, but she won't address it. I have freedom to deny the expression of the obvious. It hurts, and rather than turn away from her, I bring her face around, meet her mouth with mine, and kiss her.

When my timing is right, when she is in the mood, a full-mouthed kiss can make her pliant and predatory. Her body can be so soft and welcoming when she surrenders. I prefer the grip of her hands at the back of my head, the back of a thigh, and the razing of her hungry mouth along my skin. The thought of those things makes me crush her against my chest and kiss her harder. I want it to make me stop thinking about others. I want to feel, to be desired, and not in the casual way of women who had only known as much or as little as I told them about me.

Her leg slips between mine, her body tenses, straining against me. Her tongue plays along mine. She breaks the kiss and holds my head in her hands, panting, then writhes and bites the skin just under my left ear. Not hard enough to mark me, never that hard, but it reminds me of where she learned to bite.

The loneliness won't leave me, and the last thing I want is to lose her touch -- the last thing I want is to let go. But she is here for lunch, not to indulge my impulses.

It takes a lot to release her. I open my arms, reach for the edge of the desk. She'd backed me against it. I meet her dark, hungry eyes, and want her -- it hurts to want that much. It isn't even completely a sexual wanting, there is so much more to it that I couldn't name, not that it mattered to me. She is here, and it's more than I'd ever dreamed it could be.

"I can't help it," I murmur. Her lips glance off mine, and again, and her fingers travel down the collar of my shirt. She likes open collars. Something about my bare chest captivates her. Her fingers slide in to pinch and tease a nipple as she presses herself against me and pushes her way into my mouth. My arms are around her again, now that she's had the chance to move away and get lunch and she hasn't chosen to take it.

It's more than the touch I crave -- more than the feel of her skin, more than the sound of her sighs. More than the need for companionship. It's all of those things, and so much more, and the need to express it weighs too much. I must not lose her.

Her uniform comes off in increments -- my hands don't need much conscious instruction from me. Her mouth, her throat, her breasts -- there is a small spot, an imperfection of some sort, on her right breast near the edge of the aureole. I enjoy these small details, discovering them is taking a while, and the longer it takes the more I like it.

She moans when I take her into my mouth and drag my tongue over her nipple. Her hips grind into me when I suck harder than I thought she would like. There are some things she likes hard, others she appreciates done gently, but I am still learning. She is straining toward me. Flushed. Fire has come to life in her eyes. She looks down at me as I look up from my futile attempts at suckling. My teeth close on the nipple; I have to close my eyes, or I feel myself falling into her eyes, and my breathing stops.

When I open my eyes she is naked. Her uniform is on the floor. She has gotten my own clothing mostly off me, and I don't care how she managed it. She has her hands on my shoulders, and when I bite the other nipple she thrusts again, her hip bumping my ribs. She is making a soft noise in the back of her throat and digging her fingers into my muscles.

I want, and she understands. Taking my hands, she pulls me and walks backward, leading me toward the bedroom, nuzzling my chest.

I wonder why today I feel this great need but not for long -- it's been a week since leave. She gave me quite a workout on leave, made me sore, made me wish I were much younger, or at least more in practice than I was. But I've not had a sexual relationship that lasted longer than a week in so many years that my body has a lot of catching up to do. Her patience hurts.

She is intense and focused, tasting me, going down on me, and I am unable to stand any longer -- she can tell and stops long enough for me to sit on the end of the bed. Her hands massage my thighs and slide in, to regions that only she has considered exploring this way, while she takes more in her mouth than I've ever seen -- I don't have to guess how she knows exactly what makes me feel the most pleasure. She always knows. I tense as I sit there, practically levitating off the bed, as she pulls and pulls and slowly draws her teeth along, with just enough pressure to feel exquisite and I can't stand it when she lingers as if caught on the edge of the glans, her tongue playing with the slit.

She knows exactly how much I can take and lets go. Rising, she straddles me and massages my shoulders, kissing me again. Salt kisses -- I want and she moves, crawling up the bed and looking back at me expectantly. I am on my knees on the floor, bending to pleasure her.

She tastes like nothing I can label -- musky, slightly sweet. I wonder if it's Betazoid biology that makes her different. I've never been with a Betazoid before and couldn't say. This is something else she likes rougher than I would have guessed, and she pushes herself off the bed, groaning, as I pull at her clit with my teeth. Gently, as if to make up for the harsh treatment, I caress it with my tongue and more moans result. She writhes and tries to stay still while I work her to orgasm. I grip her thighs as it rips through her and watch her back bend, her skin flushing, her face contorting. She is uninhibited and expresses her pleasure so freely.

It almost suffocates me to watch her. I can taste her, smell her, feel the heat of her skin under my hands and the roughness of her hair as I crawl up to be with her and my cheek finds a resting place in the fall of her curls. She is rolling, climbing, and her weight is a welcome burden to me.

She is wet and warm, I can feel her tensing around me, and I want -- it twists in my chest like a blade. Her hair surrounds her face like a cloud, and overhead the stars glitter down on us through the viewport. I can see a few of them through the disarray of her curls. There are stars in her eyes as she comes down to kiss me again, mixing her taste with mine, the sweet and the salt, the mingling of musks, and I close my eyes and hold her. We roll together, I kiss her too hard -- I think I do, but she doesn't care. She pulls me down and I am lost in sensation, in the slip of skin and tongue and the texture of her hair, the movements of her body beneath me. She is athletic. She seems to know exactly what I want most -- but she does know. Her moans become a guide to what she wants. I know something pleases her when her breath catches, or she moves into the sensation. She is glorious, sensual, she knows how to touch and move. I move with her, against her, and she encourages it -- she is tight and hot. Striving to engulf me, imprisoning me while sending me soaring.

I can only manage control if I'm gentle. Picking up the tempo brings me to no return, I am in ecstasy and she is with me, tapping into it to come along. And then we are together and sated, in a tangle of limbs as she insists upon holding me there and I cannot understand what makes her this happy. She looks at me, so pleased and almost purring as she kisses along my throat, and I can't help smiling back and loving her until it breaks and I can't breathe. She lets me move to lie next to her, and she won't let me lose contact; she presses herself to me and pushes her nose against my ear, trails her lips down to my shoulder, rubs my shoulders with her hands.

It's ridiculous to try hiding anything from her, so I don't. I let a few tears fall and look up at the stars. Her head is on my chest, her hand closes on my arm, and we are quiet. She eventually reaches for my face and caresses it with her fingers, which flutter along my cheek like a moth's wings.

I still feel the suffocation, worse than before. It hurts. I expect her to say something, but she says nothing. Her hair crowds into my hand when I touch her head. My thumb finds her cheek and rubs slowly. She's never felt this heavy before, and the effort to inhale becomes painful.

"I love you," she whispers.

"Je t'aime," I manage. "Cygne."

She is finally addressing what she senses, by raising her head to look at me. I touch her with my fingers, run them down the contours of her face, and I am helpless. Suffocating. Her eyes are asking questions I have no air to answer.

I run fingers through her hair and draw her into a kiss, gently as I can, hoping she understands. She lingers, and when she pulls away her eyes glitter with more stars than before. She is crying.

"I love you," I whisper.

"Why are you afraid?"

I almost say it isn't fear, but it is. She's named what I could not define. With the naming, it becomes easier to find the shape of it. It's wrapped up in my love for her, and my desire, and the rest of me -- it's more than I can understand. And looking in her eyes, I fall. It doesn't matter that I can't breathe. I've made her cry, the last thing I wanted to do.

There's nothing I can say to erase the pain in her eyes. I take a deep breath and force my ribs to support her weight. I love her, for being worried and for being there. I love the softness of the breast filling my hand, and the imperfection I am covering with my thumb. One of her tears has run down to the tip of her nose. When it falls, it lands in my eye. I don't blink it away.

It breaks me.

I take another breath, and another. I can be what she wishes. Whatever that is. I know that she would not be intentionally fickle. I know that I would not be, either, but that neither one of us can predict the future. But I know that whatever happens, whenever it happens, if she were to leave it would not be on the wings of a moth or in the tracks of an elephant. She will always be a swan.

"I missed you, cygne," I whisper. "I'm sorry. I think too much."

The pain in her eyes falters, and dies. "Is that all?"

"I think too much. That's all."

She accepts it and forces her arms around me, though my weight pins them to the mattress. Now she is heavy for a different reason -- she's holding on to me as if afraid she'll fall off and be lost. When my arms are around her, she slowly relaxes, until we are together as we were last night, comfortable and peaceful. She loosens the pressure around my chest and finally removes one hand to reach for the back of my head. She's constantly touching that spot, and it seems to make her happy.

"I expect you to tell me if anything I do makes you uncomfortable." She flinches when it cleaves my chest, and for a wild moment I am reminded of the arrow I took for her on Mintaka -- technically, for the sake of proving I was not their god, but I would have stood there if only to rescue her, even then.

"Have you talked to Data? Rearranged your schedule?"

"I'm going to the bridge after lunch. What are you going to do this afternoon?" Again, she lets me dodge the obvious. My eyes burn. I turn on the point of the arrow, think of her smile, and pull myself off the arrowhead -- I breathe, and tighten my arms around her.

"At the moment, all I want is a nap."

"That's not surprising, I suppose."

"But not until you leave."

She makes a pleased noise. "Inside out."

"Yes," I sigh, as she shifts her weight. "Do you want me to help?"

"Help with what, my appointments?"

Unexpectedly, it almost tears me in two again. "With the rest of your things."

She sits up. All her weight is gone. She kneels on the bed looking down at me, and her makeup is smudged. "I can't fit everything at once, and I'm having trouble picking and choosing -- it's probably better that it's gradual this way, too. If we carry everything in here at once it would destroy the low profile we've been trying to keep."

"Mm. If you change your mind. . . ."

She smiles and pushes her hair back. "I'll let you know. I think I'll need another drawer, though."

"That can be arranged." My hand moves before I think about it, up her knee to her abdomen. She leans into my hand. I fondle her left breast, the right one with the imperfection out of my reach -- she bends to kiss me.

"I should -- oh, the time!" She crawls over me and hurries for the shower. By the time she comes out, I am feeling heavy again. I watch her dressing and becoming the officer. "You'd better not think too much this afternoon. I'd like to be greeted with a smile next time I come in."

"Come home naked, then."

She laughs at it while putting up her hair and repairing makeup. "Nothing like a low profile."

"Not to mention half the crew would follow you home. It will make me happy enough to see you, anyway, so nudity is optional."

When she comes to kiss me good-bye again, she studies my body openly. She is beautiful, even as an officer. She smiles again, sly, her eyes gleaming crescents behind her lashes, and leans to run a hand down my chest, down my thigh, then catches my hand. "When shift ends, why don't we go to the gym? I haven't watched you work out in quite a while. There's just something about a sexy man working up a sweat."

"What?"

"I don't have time to explain that -- again." She purrs, leans to kiss my temple, and I grab the waistband of her pants. She pulls free and sidles for the door. "And besides, I won't have to work out that way. My pulse will be racing for other reasons. See you later."

After the door closes, I don't bother trying to distract myself. It's only been two weeks. I know this is a phase -- I know it won't last forever, and that if allowed it will develop into something long-term and less giddy. A voice in my head tells me I'm too damned old to feel giddy about anything.

Another voice, one that sounds suspiciously like Deanna's, whispers that I'm not old, and I can almost feel her lips brushing my skin.

I decide that really, it's in my best interests to pay more attention to Deanna. That here, with my hands beneath my head and my body still remembering her attentions so vividly, I can allow myself a little of what I've denied myself for so long. She loves me. Her interest in me isn't casual. She didn't flirt with me in the lounge, or lead me off by the penis and laugh about it the next day. She lives in my quarters. I can let myself feel what I haven't felt in decades, the rush of being in love.

And I can even allow myself an idiotic grin.

The door opens. She storms into the room and waves my underwear at me. "You did that on purpose!"

"What?"

She throws them. I let them land on my stomach, hands still under my head. "You put them down my pants and left just enough sticking out to be visible. Jean-Luc -- "

"You probably picked them up with your uniform by accident. How would I have gotten them, when they were out in the other room? Besides, that low profile is important. I'd not want to sabotage it."

She glares, but it's the truth. "I'm going to be late for my next appointment."

"Better run, then."

She runs. I grin again, and laugh. She did pick them up -- they were dangling down the back of her pants. I had tugged on the waistband of her pants to free them and instead of falling away they'd fallen in. It will be something she'll laugh about later.

I get up and retrieve the rest of my clothes, and shower. I study my reflection in the mirror -- it's been more than a week since my last visit to the gym, and I shouldn't fall out of the habit. I wonder, if I could get more definition in the abdomen, perhaps lose a pound or two, if it would please her.

I feel ridiculous at that idea -- I've never been vain or obsessed with my appearance, though the loss of my hair had at one point caused me consternation. Deanna would love me anyway. She wouldn't mind if I remained as I am. But I am older, and it would be easier to maintain my current state if I did work out more often.

It begged the question -- quite a while? Since when had she made a habit of watching me work out? Not in the two weeks we'd been together. She had come to the gym once, after my last session with the weights. There must have been previous occasions of which I had no knowledge.

She thinks I'm sexy.

My reflection smiles at me; I shake my head at it and pull on pants, pause to test the muscle tone over the waistband. I'm definitely getting flabby. I should do something about that. How was I supposed to keep up with her if I was out of shape? I remember her hands, all over my chest, on my legs, kneading and testing, and the hunger in her eyes. Would she be so appreciative if I let myself get admiral's abs?

I run my hand over the back of my head, feeling the short fringe of hair. It's been a while since that was trimmed, and it's looking a little shaggy. The barber shouldn't be too busy this time of day. And I look at the shirt I've been wearing, and decide that since she likes wearing them to bed I could give up the older ones. Comfortable they may be, but some of them looked older than I did. I could separate the worst into her drawer. The worst, and the shortest -- she usually didn't wear underwear with them.

If she could manipulate me into situations to ogle me, I could reciprocate. All's fair in love and leering.


End file.
